A Man of the World
by Halfpenny
Summary: Because Josiah started off knowing everything. Probably. Gen. *OLD, archived*


**Di/A/N: **Magnificent Seven doesn't belong to me, though I reckon I'd use them a lot better than their true owner. Based on a work-theme challenge. Josiah listens; Ezra doesn't shut up; and heaven does enough.

**--a man of the world**

     _(fin 6-1-2k4 10:48 p.m)_

_Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, _

_and from the noisome pestilence._

                                    _--_psalm 91:3

It was perhaps a matter of principle that most things found under the heavens were not divine. Nothing made that more clear than a day and a night in the desert. Time had a way of disenchanting everything—no matter how beautiful a sunset, no matter how brilliant the stars, the dust still stuck in the mouth and the west still roughed up the skin—and come high noon on a devil's stretch of sand God was nowhere to be found.

And Josiah was a man of the world: on any given weekday there would likely be any number of sub-divine things under his nails, needling into his skin, rough beneath his knees, beating down upon his shoulders, blistering the back of his neck, bloodying his hands. Pragmatically he had to accept this because they were there, they _existed_; and another part of him appreciated the gentle irony in the fact that these things—_these_ splinters, _these_ stones, _this _floor, _these _elements—came together to form something that couldn't help but be a little more.

(a gunslinger-turned-preacher constructing a house of God; he supposed it was probably just as well he was on his knees)

...........

When Ezra Standish came through the door on Thursday afternoon, dressed in full gambler-garb and shaking the dust from his hair, Josiah, working diligently on the east wall of the building, couldn't help but be surprised. Standish was everything a man of God didn't want to be or perhaps even associate with: fancy and underhanded and greedy and with a thousand million tricks in each sleeve and every pocket, and for Josiah, a reformed man with a dangerous habit of un-reforming at will, he was a representation of all that he was trying to shake and could not.

Today Standish simply settled into one of the unpolished back pews, cards in hand, and offered a cordial tip of the hat. Josiah himself said nothing. Standish's business was his own and it was not particularly Josiah's habit to initiate conversations anyway. When Standish himself gave the first push, however, Josiah met him halfway, as was his custom, because a change in routine was always appreciated.

"Has the church tradition always been so rich in incongruity?"

He glanced to his right, squinting toward the back of the church. In the morning, and right around church time, the light was strong on the altar: a thing he was particularly proud of, if not exactly responsible for. Perhaps better was the evening, when the light was bright on the _exit_, and by that time that was looking very welcoming indeed. "What?" he said.

Standish gestured. Even from a distance Josiah noted the grace in which his hand lifted; the length of his fingers. "Seven days, seven deadly sins; the coarse to construct the building, the more fortunate to escape inside; the priests to be the voice of God, but donning material stolen from the lamb."

Josiah eased himself back onto his heels, rubbing a palm wearily over each eye. Before him, the north wall remained a bristling mass of slivers and metal, stubbornly resisting all efforts to make it anything but. How a single area remained so riddled with random, ineffectual scraps he could not possible begin to imagine; unearthed nails stood out like exclamation marks. "What's your point, son?"

With a sigh that was probably not quite exasperation, Standish drew his cards from his pocket. After thumbing through them for a few moments, he turned them over to shuffle the deck. "An exercise in irony, Mr. Sanchez, and surely you've noted the humor in your own situation. Is it difficult to toil under such well-meaning, celestial scrutiny?"

And Standish was not, apparently, above provoking him, even in God's house. "I find if I stay still and hold my breath for a long time, neither the devil nor the lord can find me."

"A marked man skulking by the altars?"

"For those precious seconds I return to being a simple but honest fool."

"Good Lord, the things one is told," Standish muttered.

"Everything binds, brother," Josiah said, studying the wall closely. He picked up his hammer and began prying at the nails. "It took the union of two imperfect beings to create something divine. Unholy things are the basis of all that is."

"I shall tell my mother the good news."

"Cynicism will get you nowhere," he added curtly, popping the first nail free.

There was a definite sneer in the drawl now. "On the contrary, cynicism will get me everywhere, and the fare is quite economical."

"Surely your mother taught you to believe in something."

"Mr. Sanchez, not in your deepest, most sinister desires do you actually wish to know what it is my mother taught me to believe in."

He pried out another nail and considered his approach. "Did you attend mass often?"

Standish actually laughed. It wasn't necessarily an unpleasant sound, but it held a touch too much deliberation: a calculated response rather than anything truly spontaneous. "You are truly a formidable force when your curiosity is aroused," he said.

"Do you have a god?" Trying to extract answers from Standish was like attempting to squeeze blood from a turnip; he usually ended up with nothing more than aching fists. "Gods?"

"God? Gods? And what, pray, classifies?" Visibly amused, Standish held up his fingers; flicked them all once in sequence, before standing. "If you will excuse me, there is a gathering of ingenuous men at our tavern who are about to lose their life's savings. Despite the pleasure this evening has offered me thus far, this is a joyous occasion I cannot, in good conscience, miss."

"Go easy on the ones with families," Josiah said uselessly.

"I play only for love of the game, Mr. Sanchez. The rest comes to me as a reward for my good sportsmanship."

The door shut tartly behind him. Josiah watched it for a moment, trying to decide whether he felt annoyed or disappointed, and finally realized he felt only a vague sense of dissatisfaction. "Like mother like son," he muttered, and began doggedly working at another nail.

And Josiah was a man of the world; reflecting, he knew that Ezra Standish was very much a prodigal pain in the ass, but looking at the smile and the quick hands and the bright eyes, he could very nearly forget.

...............

"So I can't figure it out," Nathan said. "Do you like crows or not?"

"I like them fine."

"By 'fine' you mean you hate them?"

Josiah shrugged. Ten feet up and back from the altar, an aspirant hole burrowed its way into the unforgiving framework in the hopes of someday becoming a proper window. "They exist. What they do beyond that is their business."

Nathan picked up a sanding strip and tweaked it experimentally before starting in on a pew. "All they seem useful for is foreshadowing your death."

"They provide good shade if they circle in substantial numbers."

"Buck's takin your patrol tonight."

Josiah looked up from his place on the altar steps, surprised, but Nathan was focused on his task. "What for?" he asked warily.

"Has some spare time. Knew you been workin your tail off. Tryin to avoid a husband on the rampage."

"Ah," Josiah said laconically.

"Town's been quiet—you know how he gets durin peacetime. Then you got Chris bein moody, Vin up and on patrol all day—a stick can't shake at the amount of people I've had in for heatstroke."

Josiah was only half-listening. Staring up at the hole, he tried to picture what it would look like finished. It would be relatively useless in the morning, but it would have a dazzling result in the evening. That, with the addition of some candles and perhaps a little something nice—pretty cloth over the altar, perhaps (he could afford that)—the church would truly be a sight to behold.

Nathan smoothed down another flaw along the pew's edge, then squinted upward. "That gonna be a window someday?"

"Stained glass," he said. "_Only _one with glass, let alone stained. Figure if it was small and in the back it might not be broken so quick. Church's gotta have a stained glass window. They're cheaper than regular glass anyway."

"Wha-they stick the pieces together with, anyway? Tar?"

"Lead, mostly." He envisioned the patterns dancing over the altar… the evening light honeying the steps… and surprised himself by feeling a warm glow. "Be a damned sight prettier than tired light through a splintered hole."

"This whole place'll be a damned sight prettier," Nathan said, shaking his head. Finishing, he tucked the strip in his back pocket and repositioned the pew. "I know you can stack stones 'til they bleed, but I never seen what you kin do with a pile of wood. You've done a wonder with this place."

"Holy ground," Josiah said. "Holy wood. Good intentions. Empires were forged with less."

"When's the window going in?"

"Last, I think." And he told himself it was a matter of practicality, of course, he didn't know how big he wanted to window, he didn't know if he was going to have to repair the wall; but really, in the part of him deep inside that was entertained by ceremony, he wanted it to be the star on the tree, the crown of his achievement. Putting it in would mean he had actually _done _it, and at times like these, when there was more splinter than church, he felt that that was a very unlikely thing indeed. "Gotta leave space for the crows to perch."

"There's gotta be a reason they hang 'round you so much."

"They like dead things," he said. "And preachers."

Nathan gave him a wry look and started in on the next pew. "We gonna need some shellac for this wood," he said. "Or some linseed. Womenfolk carry on enough in church without having splinters in their ass."

"Soon as I get enough for it I'll give it to you."

"What, no donations?"

Josiah finally tore his gaze from the window and swiped a sanding stone from the altar as he turned. "Practitioners of the art find it cheeky to pass the collection outside of mass."

Nathan shook his head. "S'gonna be their church too," he pointed out. "Go find a little help, Josiah, cain't hurt. I'll bet they'd donate all right if you jus' asked'em. I know for a fact Miz Travis would."

"You're prob'ly right."

"So why aren't you out there?"

"Too damned sunny. Think I'd shrivel in my clothes."

"It ain't good for you, workin' all alone all the time," Nathan said disapprovingly. "Isolation does things to a man's head. Gets him thinkin too much. And anyway, your birthday's comin' up pretty soon, innit? Gonna be doing somethin for that?"

Josiah was taken completely off-guard. "My birthday?"

"Plannin to do anything for it?"

Where had this come from? "Does it matter?"

"I dunno, m'just curious."

"I wasn't planning to, no."

"Best excuse for drinkin y'self stupid you'll have all year."

Which was ridiculous, of course, as both of them knew very well Josiah never had, and never would, need a reason to drink himself stupid. "Far be it from me to refuse God if he wants to send me something pretty, but otherwise, Brother Nathan, barring signs, it will be a normal Wednesday and I will be working on his house."

"And the good Lord'll get this information to you how?"

"Everything that happens has a sign. Whether or not we recognize it is our prerogative."

And Nathan looked dissatisfied, though Josiah knew better than to think they were still on the subject of birthdays. "You're more prickly than that hole up there," he muttered. "And not half as pretty."

Josiah grinned. "Sure it's not just the stubble?"

Nathan began working down the side, grinding dust into the air. "Don't know what to think sometimes… Will you at least try and get help? Don't claim to know what the lord thinks, but I'd reckon he ain't too crazy about you toilin alone day-in, day-out."

"This is my… penance." He rolled the word around on his tongue, experimenting with its familiar, bitter tang. "My penance. Nobody else's."

Nathan's breath hitched sourly. He gave the stone another firm shove, sending pew dust off to gather heavily on the floor. "So what's that make me?"

"A willing participant in my personal hell."

"Glad to know participation's optional down there," Nathan muttered.

"Nathan," he said, and waited until the healer looked at him before saying, "I 'preciate your help."

Nathan looked away. There was no real tension in the room, but after a moment the atmosphere shifted nevertheless, betrayed in the grudging half-smile and the gentle hint of a slope in Nathan's shoulders. "Can't figure you out worth a damn, preacher man."

"I'm a self-effacing man of principle."

"You're a stubborn old fool who talks in circles."

Settling down by an adjacent pew, Josiah blew the dust from his stone and shot him a grin. "Consider it one of the advantages of being a man of God."

.................

He supposed it was just as well his hearing was shot. In such an echo-y place, with such unforgiving tools and with his ear so close to his work, it would have been a very uncomfortable job indeed had it not been the case. As it was, he still was forced to endure a multitude of headaches from the heat and the hammering and most definitely a collaborative effort of both.

"And yet again I find you toiling tirelessly in the house of our lord," Standish said, closing the door behind him. As he ambled up the aisle Josiah noted somewhat sourly that he held an open bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was pleasantly surprised, however, when Standish took a long drag on the bottle and then surrendered it, retreating to recline on the front pew. "You had best exercise caution, Mr. Sanchez, lest you find yourself unable to work on Sunday."

Josiah eased himself off of his knees and propped himself against the wall. The bottle felt blessedly cool against his palm and he drank from it deeply, savoring the bitter tang. "Can't drink in church," he said as he lowered it, perhaps a bit too late.

"Oh, then, pray do not debauch yourself on my account!" Standish's boots plopped up onto the pew, and with a brisk nod of his head he tipped the hat down over his eyes. "Preserve your purity and effect its sanctimonious return!"

"But then, even the most unholy substances are made pure under the light of the lord," Josiah observed, and drained the bottle. It thunked hollowly as he set it on the ground.  Out of subtle deference for his companion he did not resume hammering, instead reaching for one of his sanding stones. God knew the window ledges needed the attention. "Come ye to visit the lord, our God?"

"Oh, heavens no, I came in to escape the heat. Oddly, there are a multitude of… unpleasant things that may occur when ale join forces with heat and a series of ignominious defeats."

"One too many brawls in the tavern?"

Though the reply was acidic, he knew better than to think the ire was directed towards him. "Without you there to defend my maidenly honor, I haven't a soul willing to step up into the line of proverbial fire, Mr. Sanchez. May God defend my virtue."

"Best not put God to the task," he said. "He likes the things that actually keep him busy."

"Though I'm driven to wonder if it in fact pains you to spend time out with the living. JD has taken to placing bets on whether or not you have been 'preachernapped'."

Josiah thought of the boundless energy and the young back and entertained several dark thoughts. "JD should come down and see."

"The idea appalls him," Standish said promptly. "He would be of no use—he would drive you mad with inane questions and equally mindless chatter."

Josiah's frown took a sarcastic tilt. Seeing it, Standish emulated it humorlessly. "It is not the idea of work that I am repulsed by, it is its nature," he said. "True happiness only comes to those who maintain their self-image of choice. Is a house of God supposed to be as hot as to suggest something else?"

The heat _was _a bit worse today, Josiah realized. Unlike Standish, however, who was never seen out of his jackets, he himself had dressed accordingly, with a light cotton shirt and pants naturally ventilated by wear and tear. Looking at him more closely, Josiah couldn't understand how Standish had not ended up one of Nathan's heatstroke patients. "If you didn't always wear that get-up, I don't think you'd find it all that bad."

"God should recognize the danger of mutiny and send winds down to ease the discomfort of his guests."

"God places us in various situations to give us experience," he said. "If our faith is pure, we can endure any earthly discomfort and be thankful for the good things that similarly come in abundance till we're once again one with the lord."

"As always your priestly vernacular touches and astounds me," Standish said dryly.

"You could help, you know."

"And disrupt your solitary quest for self-absolution?"

"Ezra," Josiah said, "you're in here every day talking my ear off as it is, do you really think I would refuse a hand now and then? I've got pews and a floor and walls to sand, I've got to put oil on these things, I need to make new sanding strips, which of course means I've got to go out and scoop up some more quartz and grain, not to mention getting more tar…"

"I'm afraid my hands haven't the constitution to withstand such brutish assignments," Standish said. "Moreover, my services are required at the tavern within the next half hour. I only stepped out to stretch my legs and ensure a reliable escape route. The harassment of a priest, I found, was merely an anticipated and satisfying bonus."

Despite his irritation, Josiah knew he was right. Other than a small, rough area at the base of the fingers on the hand that held the reins, Standish's hands were maiden-soft, long, and fine-boned; perfect for a cardsharp, but debilitating to a gunslinger, the latter of which he was, despite his best efforts, steadily turning into. "And just who are you working your devilry on tonight?"

"This will be a rematch of last night's devastation, in fact. I believe I have already procured six pocket watches, two deeds, and a wife from that particular party."

"Ezra," he said sharply.

Gold flashed in a disarming grin. "Have no fear, the wife will be returned, as well as the deeds. I have no desire to be entangled in the web of legalese. The point was for them to recognize my generosity and repay it in turn, when the time is right."

Of course. "Favors."

"You would be simply astonished at the number of establishments I can drink for free in," Standish said. "Even I forget sometimes just how well liked I am. Good day, Mr. Sanchez."

But before he left he rummaged around in his coat; a moment later, to Josiah's astonishment, he pulled out a bright new flask and tossed it over. Josiah barely caught it in time. "A surprise," Standish said. "It's your birthday, I believe, and though this is somewhat of a dry establishment, at least in theory, I believe the occasion supercedes the tradition."

It _was _his birthday, he realized, startled. He unscrewed the cap and passed it under his nose cautiously. The scent took him aback and he repeated the motion, becoming incredulous. "Ezra, you didn't…?"

"Cognac, Mr. Sanchez, I believe you well recognize the scent. Sheer irreverence on my part to put it into a flask, but the packaging was necessary as I won't get either back."

Josiah blinked at him. "Won't get either…?"

Standish straightened his jacket idly, then took a genuine study of his cuffs. "These are for you. As a good Christian I could hardly bear the guilt of trying to steal the bottle once it has been in the house of God. Therefore the original container, with a healthy fourth of its original content, is awaiting me back at my quarters and you, sir, have a new flask. Considering the fact I purloined your own earlier this year, it is not a gift as much as restitution, so gratitude, in case it is beginning to worm its way past your better judgment, is not necessary."

The real content had been at the launch, and Josiah refused to let the ensuing chatter distract him. "You got this for me," he said.

"There are of course strings attached. According to our Mr. Wilmington, you are to frequent the tavern at approximately eight o'clock tonight to offer him, Mr. Dunne, Mr. Tanner, and Mr. Jackson a sip, which will therefore invoke feelings of generosity as well as result in the purchase of several rounds of other, less-expensive drinks. Our illustrious leader made no promises, but I am under the belief that his habitual skulking in the corners will lead him to be present despite himself. I believe Mr. Dunne also has a carefully wrapped package to present to you, but as he is rather sensitive about its painfully obvious, fishing rod-like shape, you may want to feign ignorance for the sake of preserving your friendship."

"Ezra," he said, "thank you."

"No need," Standish said briskly. "I myself will not be able to attend, as I have another, more lucrative engagement scheduled for the same hour. As you have celebrated approximately ninety-three birthdays, I doubt the latest will be terribly affected by my absence."

He tipped his hat and walked back toward the exit. Josiah regarded the flask. "Ezra."

The gambler stopped at the doorway, though Josiah could read the impatience in the set of his shoulders. "Did Nathan tell you?" he asked.

A pause, and a slight turn. "On the contrary, Mr. Sanchez," Ezra drawled, "I told him."

The door shut and Josiah took a taste of damnation. It went smooth all the way down.

................

He supposed he should be glad he'd lived long enough to experience the symptoms of old age. There were several times in his life that it could have gone either way, and even now, in the midst of a belated full-time profession, he knew the instant he cocked his gun that the only thing keeping him alive was the cover of six other highly distracted gunmen and his own instincts.

But no matter how favored the concept of longevity was, there was no denying that, given the slightest opportunity, it hurt like a bitch. A full day of hauling and hammering had done its work and his back, long since seeming like an infallible support, was now making even the slightest of movements a torture. The bright side was that, in spite of Josiah's refusal, Nathan had gone to the townsfolk to ask for donations. He suspected that this probably was not the first time someone had tried to renovate the church, and the town itself was not rich, so the money came sparingly. Both Nathan's and the town's gesture touched and surprised him, and the result was enough to purchase enough linseed oil to go on the pews _and_ the altar.

Despite his pleasure, however, the day had been long and his muscles were screaming for a reprieve—a luxury Josiah, if solely out of habit, was not inclined to give them. Every instinct drove him to use the daylight he had. Absurdly, he was, in a way, too tired to stop: his motions were mechanical but efficient, and the thought of garnering enough energy to actually set aside the brush, gather his supplies, and find his bed made his limbs heavy with dread. "It is a wonder how these pews fell into such disrepair in the first place," Ezra remarked. "Were they not completed before, or deliberately left in their natural state? Certainly they have not truly been used, though one would think these people would attend church regularly. Congratulate yourself on your excellent timing, sir—I feel you may have saved this town and its occupants from descending into the fiery depths of hell almighty."

"You're in my light, son," he said wearily. "All I'm doing is boiling up some linseed and slapping it on wood, and nailing up a few things while I'm at it. Whether or not I'll actually preach in here remains to be seen."

"I honestly don't think you will be able to help yourself," Ezra said. "It's a conditioned response, similar to the impulse you receive upon staring at a gathering of un-towed rocks."

"There is absolution to be found in even the simplest of work," he intoned. His knee ached fiercely and a part of him longed to be up from his kneeling position, but it was either that or standing again, and in experimenting he found his legs disliked that idea very much. "He who finds satisfaction in his earthly tasks knows divine joy."

"Which is exactly what will continue to bring people to your doorstep, Mr. Sanchez. The wisdom you impart is invaluable. The faithful shall frequent Four Corners in droves, seeking advice and lining your collection bin with tear-soaked bills." Ezra flicked his wrist to release his derringer, then reset it. The action itself, repetitive and consistent, was as close to a nervous habit as the man ever displayed. "I for one am wildly inspired whenever I hear the droll yet meaningful monotone…"

Josiah rested his arm across his knee and bent his head to rub his wrist along his forehead. "Perhaps you should be sharing your wisdom with me, as you've taken a turn or two at preacherhood yourself," he muttered.

"And usurp your time-honored position? I think not, sir—I'm content here at ground level, mingling with the commoners and appropriating their earthly funds."

"Since when has playing preacher stopped you from doing that?"

Ezra surrendered a quick, sarcastic smile, but nothing more was said in response. In a way it was to be expected. Conversations with him always came in subtle shifts: despite the wealth of words he had at his disposal, the gambler remained leery of long discussions, and he never went anywhere unarmed; at any given time he would briefly retract his part of the dialogue and listen, repairing, re-building his arsenal of observations and cynical comments, and would return after a time, better equipped for the next phase of the exchange. Talking with him, Josiah reflected, likened to opening the door of a chicken coop to a fox: given the opening he took everything and gave back nothing.

Shaking his head, Josiah returned his attention to the pew and lifted his arm. Pain bit viciously into his shoulder; his stomach churned sharply in response and he reached up reflexively with his other hand, unable to check the curse that hissed its way between his teeth. Ezra released his derringer and reset it, shooting him a startled look. "Another earthly difficulty, Mr. Sanchez?"

Josiah shook his head. Fighting down his nausea, he picked up his brush again and swiped the sweat from his upper lip. "Do you have to practice that by the altar?" he asked irritably.

Ezra had the gall to look confused. "Would you rather me practice by the pews?"

"I'd rather you—" And he stopped, because Ezra was provoking him and he was too tired anyway. He lifted his brush again, and lowered it when his back turned into a mutinous mass of screaming muscles. It was the excuse to stop that he had been looking for, but now that he had it he realized he couldn't stop, not this early, not this late. He was running on a purely perfunctory level—a state that ended up providing as much and as little as whiskey and a good shoot-out did; the same satisfaction that came from successfully avoiding one's own thoughts. Josiah lifted the brush a third time, more slowly, and when it became apparent that the episode would not repeat itself for the time being he concentrated on finishing his job.

Ezra was watching him. "Or perhaps the doorway? I could deign to sit in a window, but then I fear I would become too comfortable."

"Stop it, Ezra," he said softly. He brushed a splinter off and smoothed oil over the spot. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

There was a brief silence. Josiah suspected the gambler was somewhat thrown; he had never actually implied that he wanted Ezra to be elsewhere before. "Yes, but there is no other place I desire to be at more than this one," Ezra said smoothly. "Are you certain it's wise for you to continue? You appear to be tapping your last reserves."

"This isn't the first time my mortality has slapped me in the face."

"Nevertheless, a break might be in order?"

Josiah smiled humorlessly. "Now you're actually interested in what I'm doing?"

"You do not offer one the keys to the city, however figuratively, and expect them to turn and participate in the construction of their own metaphorical prison." As always when the subject and circumstances did not pertain to the familiar realm of gambling, Ezra was quick to get peevish. "You expect little from others, Mr. Sanchez; I fail to see why I should be the exception."

"I expect nothing more out of you than I know you're capable of giving." He felt ridiculous; he was hot and snappish and he hated this, hated losing his own temper, hated being so obviously baited. He was being pulled in too many directions, caught between the desire to be with someone and to serve his time alone as he had planned. He hadn't counted on the donations, or the random volunteers, or Nathan's visits. Certainly not the strange longing he felt when he looked at the altar; certainly not the strange sense of regret he got looking at the too-sharp eyes and the resigned set of the shoulders and the infuriating, haphazard glimpses of human between everything that hadn't gained the right to be. "Did it ever occur to you I might not like guns being drawn in my church? Did it occur to you that I might not enjoy your hawk-watching and your snide comments?"

"If you were too terribly displeased you would have requested I leave long before now."

"It isn't my place to ask you to leave, Ezra!"

Standish gave him a very vulpine expression, green eyes bright with late afternoon. It was that that brought Josiah back down again and he wearily returned his focus to the pews, continuing to spread on the oil. There were not a large number of them, and a couple more hours of work would ensure that he would at least get most of them done. Then, perhaps, he could continue with the windows, maybe borrow the broom from the shop down the street and sweep up before he found himself windmilling in a puddle of dust. Then, by the time all was said and done, he would have enough time to grab a coat before heading out on the night patrol.

The time that elapsed could not have been more than a few minutes, yet it felt an eternity later when he felt a presence at his shoulder, heard a rustle of cloth; sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, jacket folded on the altar, Ezra reached for a second brush and touched it to the oil. "I once participated in a ruse that required me to demonstrate some skills with a brush," he said. "It was an intricate affair, involving no less than three towns, five hundred volunteers, the sale of over fifty acres of land, the subsequent restoration of the existing buildings, and a diagram detailing the plans for the new development."

Josiah wiped his forehead once again, looking at him. Ezra was as tidy as ever, with the same clean shirt and pants and shined boots and graceful hands, but he was starting on an unfinished pew armed with only a brush and a whim and it looked oddly apposite, as if he'd been meaning to get to it all day. Josiah rubbed his face, working at the grit in the corner of his eyes, and settled for the all-encompassing, "What?"

"It took several months for them to realize it was an elaborate hoax; that the land was not ours to sell, that I am not in any way a working man or farmhand…" Ezra peered into the can, dipped the brush in a bit further, then slid it out to sweep it across an unfinished part of the pew. "But mother was handling the situation remarkably well…"

Josiah watched him work for a minute, then shook his head. Dipping his own brush, he scooted back a foot to begin on a different pew. "But?"

Ezra cleared his throat. "The diagram was well-received, but the, ah, subsequent restoration of my poor judgment and the new development of one of the mayor's daughters ended the ruse… prematurely."

"Ezra, what's this all about?"

"Have your diverse carpentry skills provided you with any pecuniary benefits in the past?"

He closed his eyes. Words were replaced with the muted whisper of bristles on wood. Josiah's fingers curled tightly about the handle of his brush and lowered slightly, dipping the lower half of his hand into shadow. His eyes opened to trace the ever-changing patterns of light on the floor; the gold catching and sobering in the rapidly drying pews, sparking red in dust-dulled hair. He added the sweep of his own brush to further injure the silence, closed his mouth; turned his head to watch their shadows flicker, lengthen, and pale, and asked no further questions.

..............

He put in the stained glass window in the following spring, brushing cooled sand from the sill. The degree of the sunset was still peculiar and the light did not yet shine directly through the glass, but Vin assured him that it would straighten up right quick with the summer and then the colors would be dancing over the altar, just as he had hoped. In the meantime Nathan said it was fine how it was: colorful, centered… a poised addition to a newly-renovated heap of tamed splinters. JD popped his head in long enough to marvel that it was like a jewel before fleeing back to the safety of relative non-commitment.

Later, in a rare show of generosity and the willingness to all be in the same spot at once, the others picked him up from the church and took him out for a drink—imported brand, a treat courtesy of collectively harvested boot-money. Smoke clambered in tangles through the air and the banter between JD and Buck grew increasingly raucous and across the table Ezra's eyes were green; guarded.

And Josiah was a man of the world; he watched the light claw clumsily through the amber liquid, then threw it back without ceremony. It burned sweet in his throat and kicked all the way down.

_(fin)_


End file.
